A Murder on London Bridge (24 page)

‘When we are married, I shall hire a cook-maid,’ she declared, somewhat out of the blue as she banged her loaf on the table to test its hardness. ‘Then we shall not have to worry about bread.’

Chaloner gaped at her. ‘You mean when you are married to me?’

It was her turn for raised eyebrows. ‘Of course. Or are you saying that you never intend to make an honest woman of me? I should like our union sanctified by God, Tom. The Duke says such scruples are nonsense, but I disagree.’

‘You have discussed marriage with the Duke?’

‘Yes. He is a very dear friend, and always ready with advice, although not all of it is very sound. However, he did say one sensible thing: that I should snare you while I can.’

Chaloner stared at her. ‘You will take me? But I have so little to offer.’

Hannah laughed, and the sound was music in his ears. ‘Well, you have modesty in abundance, which is not a virtue often encountered at Court. I never thought I would love another man after my husband died, but you have grown special very quickly. I know we share little in terms of interests and acquaintances, but I do not think that matters.’

‘Perhaps not.’

Hannah’s face fell. ‘You do not sound very sure.’

Chaloner hastened to make amends. He had not meant to seem uncertain, but the truth was that his mind was in a turmoil of confusion. He
did
want to marry Hannah, but there was a small, rational voice at the back of his mind that whispered simple affection might not be enough to keep them together for the rest of their lives. They needed more.

‘I
am
sure,’ he insisted. ‘But we have never talked . . . I did not imagine . . .’

Hannah regarded him soberly. ‘You can say no, if you would rather we maintained our current arrangement. Or has this discussion frightened you away from even that?’

‘No! I will marry you tomorrow, if you like.’ There, it was out, and there was no going back now. Perhaps it was not the right decision, but time would tell. And it was infinitely preferable to spending the rest of his life wondering what he had lost.

Hannah smiled at last. ‘If we did that, tongues would wag. Everyone would assume I was with child! Besides, we need time to make the arrangements. How about a date in the summer?’

‘Spring,’ said Chaloner firmly. Now the decision was taken, he found himself eager to act on it. Was it because he was afraid he might change his mind? ‘I do not want to wait too long.’

Hannah flung her arms around his neck. ‘Then spring it shall be.’

Chaloner woke the following morning with the sense that his life had been irrevocably changed. The pleasure – and relief that his own feelings were reciprocated – he had experienced the previous day had faded, and unease had taken its place. Hannah had mentioned their differences, indicating he was not the only one who had wondered about their long-term compatibility. He took a deep breath and rolled over to look at her as she lay sleeping.

In repose, there were lines around her eyes and mouth that he had never noticed before, and her fair curls were a chaotic jumble around her head. Careful not to wake her, he reached out to touch them. They were soft and warm, and he found himself hoping that she would not regret the step she had taken. But lying in bed pondering the terrors of marriage was doing no one any good, so he rose, aware that he had a lot to do, and left while she was still asleep.

It had been several days since he had reported to the Earl, so he decided to visit White Hall first. The day was crisp and clear, with a sharp breeze blowing in from the north. The rooftops were brushed white with frost, and glittered in the sunlight. White Hall looked pretty, with its jumble of gables and chimneys, slightly shrouded in smoke from the huge fires in the kitchens.

The Great Court was treacherously slippery, though, and Chaloner went to the assistance of one man who took a tumble. It was Progers. The three Penderel brothers were with him, but they were more interested in jeering than helping him up. They were all drunk, and Chaloner could tell by the way they were dressed that they had been out all night, and were just returning home. Progers looked particularly disreputable, his ugly face smeared with powder from the cheeks of a whore.

‘I have broken my leg,’ he howled, rolling on the ground as he clutched his knee.

‘You have not,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘Let me help you stand, and then you can—’

‘This is more my domain than yours,’ boomed a familiar voice.

Chaloner turned to see Wiseman bearing down on them, all flowing red hair, scarlet robes and finely honed muscles. His heart sank: he was not in the mood for the surgeon’s irritating arrogance that morning.

‘I need a drink,’ Progers gasped, as the surgeon examined the afflicted limb. ‘Wine.’

‘You need my unique cure for drunkenness,’ countered Wiseman, waving a bottle at him. ‘And then a decent nap. Stand up, man. You are not hurt. And you owe me two shillings.’

‘For what?’ demanded Progers, shocked. ‘I am not buying your cure, because I know it contains vinegar and slug juice – Buckingham told me. And you have not done anything else to earn a fee.’

‘I inspected you and pronounced you fit,’ argued Wiseman, holding out his hand. ‘So give, or you will be sorry the next time you are laid low with some embarrassing pox.’

Resentfully, Progers began to count out the money, while the Penderel brothers sniggered at the spectacle. Chaloner took the opportunity to talk to them, sensing they were too tipsy to recognise him as one of the Earl’s retainers.

‘I thought there were four of you,’ he began pleasantly. ‘Where is Edward?’

‘Why?’ demanded Oliver belligerently, humour evaporating fast as he clenched his scarred fists.

Chaloner raised his hands defensively. ‘It was just a polite enquiry.’

‘Please stop snarling at everyone, Oliver,’ chided Rupert wearily. ‘It is only natural for people to ask, given that we are usually all four together.’ He turned to Chaloner. ‘We do not know where he is. He has been missing since Sunday. Personally, I think he tired of London and went home.’

‘He would not have gone without telling us,’ countered Neville worriedly. ‘Something has happened, I am sure of it. This is a dangerous place, and I wish we had not come.’

‘On the contrary,’ argued Oliver. ‘Our fortunes are rising – we have a place at Court, a decent home, and the Dowager trusts us. It is a good place, and we are going to stay for as long as we can.’

They all looked around at the sound of hurrying footsteps. It was Luckin and Father Stephen, their clerical robes flying as they ran. Stephen looked agitated, but then he always looked agitated, and neither the Penderels nor Progers seemed unduly concerned by his alarm.

‘There you are!’ he cried, skidding to a standstill and almost suffering the same fate as Progers as he slipped on a patch of frost. ‘The Dowager wants you all.’

‘What, now?’ asked Progers. He belched, then put his hand over his mouth, as if he thought he might be sick. ‘We were about to go to bed. Not together, of course. I have a nice young whore waiting for me – one of the actresses from
The Indian Queen
.’

‘Which one?’ demanded Oliver. ‘It had better not be the fair-headed wench, because I want her.’

‘The Dowager intends to visit Winchester Palace, and demands your company,’ said Luckin sharply, before Progers could reply. His nose was very purple from the cold. ‘So, I advise you to splash some water on your faces and attend her immediately, because you know what she is like when she does not get what she wants.’

The notion of losing the favour of a powerful patron was enough to drive Progers and the Penderels to the nearest fountain, although nothing would have induced Chaloner to put
his
face in it. He had seen courtiers urinating there in the past, and it was a repository for all manner of filth. Luckin went with them to supervise, grimacing his disapproval at the state they were in.

‘Thank you for sending me the message about the King’s dial-maker,’ said Chaloner to Stephen in an undertone. ‘I shall visit him as soon as I can. What do you think he might know?’

The priest looked around uneasily. ‘I overheard Phillippes say something about digging for gold. I have no idea what he was talking about, but I sensed something deeply untoward.’

Chaloner groaned. There was something about gold that always brought out the worst in people, and he hated cases that involved treasure.

‘Luckin is coming back!’ hissed Stephen urgently. ‘We must talk about something else.’ He cleared his throat and spoke rather loudly. ‘Is it true that you jumped off the Bridge on Monday night? Because if so, it is my sacred duty to warn you that self-murder is a mortal sin, and—’

‘It is not true,’ Chaloner snapped. ‘I was at home on Monday night.’

‘Did I hear mention of suicide?’ demanded Luckin. ‘It
is
a sin, but not as great as some I could name. Like injustice, for instance. Did you hear that I was arrested and held in the Tower, just because Lord Bristol chose to tell me he was no longer Catholic?
That
is injustice at its worst.’

‘Are you saying Lord Bristol is currently in the country?’ pounced Chaloner.

‘I doubt he is here now, having seen what happened to me,’ replied Luckin grimly. ‘He hoped for a reconciliation with his King, and instead all he got was an innocent vicar clapped in irons. They said he was an outlaw, and that I should have arrested him. But how ridiculous! He had a sword, for a start, and I was unarmed. The whole episode was disgraceful!’

‘Yes, it was,’ said Stephen soothingly. ‘But we must go, or the Dowager will be angry. Are the brothers and Progers respectable? Let me rephrase that: are they ready? Yes? Then let us be off.’

Chaloner watched them scurry away. He had rarely seen a more unprepossessing rabble, and wondered why the Dowager wanted their company. Surely, there were better companions available?

‘How is Jane Scarlet?’ he asked, when Wiseman came to stand next to him.

‘Not making as rapid a recovery as I would have hoped. Meanwhile, her husband does nothing but weep, and I had to order him back to work lest he turned himself mad with grief. It is a sorry situation, and Spymaster Williamson tells me he has made no headway with catching the villains responsible.’

‘Does he have any clues?’

‘None he shared with me. Why? Are you thinking of launching your own enquiry?’

‘No,’ lied Chaloner. ‘I am just concerned that the culprits may do it again.’

‘You are worried about Hannah,’ surmised Wiseman. ‘I can understand that – I am concerned for Temperance, and I told Preacher Hill to abandon his door-keeping duties and guard her full-time. It is a bad business, and if you do decide to dispense your own justice, then there is not a man in London who would not shake your hand for it.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You, a Court surgeon, advocates vigilantism?’

Wiseman met his gaze. ‘Of course, when it serves to protect the innocent.’

Chaloner resumed his journey to the Earl. White Hall was comparatively empty, because it was too early for most courtiers to be up – with the obvious exception of those who had not yet gone to bed. He saw the Queen taking her morning exercise in the Shield Gallery, but her retinue was noticeably reduced; Lady Castlemaine was among those who would not put in an appearance until at least noon.

Secretary Bulteel intercepted him before he could reach Clarendon’s offices. ‘I hoped you would come today,’ he said, offering Chaloner one of a batch of aniseed-flavoured knot biscuits he had baked. ‘I have something important to tell you.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner. ‘Because I still have no idea who killed Blue Dick, what the Dowager’s cronies plan to do on Shrove Tuesday, or what those iconoclasts discuss when they meet.’

Bulteel grinned. To anyone who did not know him, it was a sinister expression, and explained why he did not have many friends. ‘I may be able to help you with some of that.
And
I know why the Earl ordered you to investigate Blue Dick’s death, when most of us think you would be better placed monitoring our enemies.’

‘Yes?’ prompted Chaloner, when the secretary paused, presumably for dramatic effect.

‘All these things are connected.’ Bulteel smiled again. ‘I learned it from Spymaster Williamson, when I dined at his house last night.’

Chaloner blinked. ‘Williamson asked you to his home
again
? Why?’

He had not meant to be rude, but Williamson was an elitist snob who despised anyone he considered his intellectual or social inferior – and he would see Bulteel as both. And why two invitations in a week? It was downright suspicious! Moreover, Chaloner was disappointed in Bulteel for accepting them, thinking him too good for such sly company.

Bulteel looked hurt. ‘He likes me. I supply him with information – something you told me was an acceptable thing to do – and we have become friends.’

‘You have?’ Chaloner’s disappointment intensified, and he saw he would have to watch what he said in future. He doubted Bulteel would say anything to harm him deliberately, but the man was a novice in the world of espionage, and might let something slip inadvertently. It was a blow, because he liked Bulteel, and was beginning to trust him.

‘
You
said it is natural for a Spymaster to have informants in all government departments,’ said Bulteel, distressed by Chaloner’s obvious disapproval. ‘And you said I should not worry about it.’

‘Yes, but I did not recommend
fraternising
with him,’ said Chaloner in distaste. ‘You will never know if he is asking you friendly questions or plying you for information.’

‘Well, he did not ply me last night,’ said Bulteel defensively. ‘Indeed, he was more interested in dispensing intelligence than getting it.’

And why would Williamson confide in Bulteel, thought Chaloner suspiciously, when he knew perfectly well what Bulteel would do with it? It made no sense. Unless . . .